


Beauty and the 14 Prompts

by HathorAroha



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Villeneuve Villagers, batb14fics, prompt challenges
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 14:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: A collection of my fanfic responses to the 14 writing prompts in @tinydooms' #BATB14fics writing challenge for January 2019. I am doing it out of order of her list of prompts, going with which ones are inspiring me most first, and leave the rest for later. IN PROGRESS.





	1. Bread

**Author's Note:**

> The Villeneuve baker reflects on Belle's negative review of his baking, and his indignation at her not understanding how many decades of passion have been baked into his craft.

Well! My day started out so well! The bread perfect in my oven, my two little brats snoring away, mouths open, in their beds, not screaming and running around. In the bathroom, I’d made my bald spot perfectly polished, and walked into the kitchen to see my wife properly at work on cooking up a breakfast. What a perfect start to seven in the morning, kissing my little wifey on the cheek before whipping out the door with my tray of goods. 

It’s because of my pa that I take so much pride in my bread rolls. At the tidy age of five all, he showed me the art of pounding dough until it bent to your whims, flour caking my arms and swiped across my forehead. At eight, I made my first bread roll (under supervision, of course, as neither ma or pa wanted to see me pitch head first into the oven). Fine, it was burned on the bottom, a little dry, and it tasted a little too salty, but it was  _my first breadroll_. I have fond memories of that too-dry, too-salty, too-burned bread roll. 

Then in no time, I found myself helping pa make his bread, helping out in his little shop in our Parisian suburb. Time and time again, seductive aromas of fresh bread, and the gentle warmth of just-baked rolls tested my willpower. Through my pa and my own steel determination, I conquered my weakness for sneaking a bit of bread when I’d thought my pa wasn’t looking (he was. Every time.) 

So now, on this fine morning, to saunter out, ready for a fine day selling bread, only for Belle to insult my hard work!  _Same old bread and rolls to sell?!_ Well I never! She never saw all the passion my pa drilled into me, all the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears I poured into  _decades_ of baking! What is it today with these young whippersnappers thinking they can insult a man’s job? I work for that devil money, work hard to fill people’s bellies with warm bread. She’s almost as bad as that Potts fellow (oh yes, I overheard him insulting her choice of read alright. My wifey loves romances, which I find boring too, and do you see me insulting her choice of literature?  _No._ I’m not that kind of man!) 

Really, Belle is a strange little woman, but other than her strange habits of insulting my bread, reading while walking about, and her  _inventions_ , she really is harmless. Long as she don’t try to steal my bread (as though she would.  _Same old bread. Hmph!_ ) she ain’t harming me and I ain’t harming her in turn.


	2. Novels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam walks into the library to discover Belle hard at work inventing a new contraption where she can read seven novels at once.

The last thing Adam expected to hear in the library was the sound of hammering on wood. The second thing he heard, and he wasn’t so surprised, given her love for inventing, was Belle’s voice, directing someone to hold an axle in place or to hold the hammer for her. 

“Alright Chip, that’s almost done!” 

Adam couldn’t help a smile, knowing that for the last few weeks, Chip had been begging Belle to show him how she built all her inventions. Naturally, Belle was only too willing to show him. 

“One more shelf to go and we’re done!” 

 _A new bookshelf?_ Adam guessed. 

“Don’t touch the wheels yet, Chip, I’ll show you how it works when it’s done.” 

_Wheels? On a bookshelf?_

His curiosity getting the better of him, Adam pushed the door wide open, searching for Belle as he wandered inside. 

“Belle?” he called out, “Where are you?” 

“Over here!” came her muffled voice, “We’re building something!” 

Adam spotted a catch of brown hair and bare wiggling toes poking out from around the corner. Wood chippings and abandoned nails littered the floor. Approaching them, Adam finally saw Chip standing next to Belle, clutching a huge piece of paper between his hands, back as straight as possible, his face a picture of utter serious business. 

“Oh there you are, Belle.” 

Belle never looked up, her attention focused entirely on the contraption before her. It looked to be some unusual contraption, with shelves nailed to an axle between two huge wheels. It reminded him of a cart, but he couldn’t see any donkey pulling this one. 

“What’s that?” Adam asked them in general. 

“A rolling bookshelf!” Chip declared, waving the sheet of paper at Adam, before shoving it in the prince’s hands. 

“Don’t crumple it, please,” Belle requested from the floor. 

Adam smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper, his thumbs coming away stained with pencil. Judging by the sketch lines and drawings, Adam surmised it was a blueprint of the…bookshelf…Belle was building. 

“Adam, I’m nearly done,” Belle said, straightening up from her work, resting her hands in her lap, surveying her work so far. “Why don’t you and Chip find some novels to put on this thing?” 

“Belle, what exactly is a “rolling bookshelf”?”

Belle grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling, cheeks a soft pink from the exertion, strands of flyabout hair framing her face. 

“It’s a bookshelf–you can put seven novels at once on it!” 

“Seven?” Adam echoed, raising an eyebrow, “Why would you want seven on there?” 

“So I can read seven books at a time, what do you think?”

Adam shook his head, a little laugh passing his lips. 

“This is why I love you, Belle,” he said, bending down to give her a little kiss on her head, resting a hand on her shoulder. “There’s never a dull day with you here. And I’ll never understand how you can read seven books at once.” 

“It’s a skill,” Belle shrugged, a mysterious tug at a corner of her lips, “Now why don’t you and Chip go find seven novels for me to put on my bookshelf to test it?” 

“Romances?” Adam guessed, gently teasing. 

Belle rolled her eyes. “Adventures, romances, historical, I’m not  _that_ predictable, Adam!” 

Another little kiss on her head. “Why of course you are, my love.” 

“Go get my novels already, Adam.” 

Adam straightened up, only to be nearly pulled off balance as Chip tugged hard on his arm, impatient to get going. 

“Come on, Adam! Let’s find books!” 

“Just make sure he doesn’t go in  _that_ section,” Belle warned. “He was asking about it earlier.”

Chip pouted. “I don’t see why I’m not allowed.” 

Adam knew  _exactly_ what Belle was talking about, and no way he was going to tell Chip. 

“You’re too young, Chip. I’ll tell you when you’re a  _lot_ older.”

“You sound like mama.” 

“Let’s go look for swashbuckling knights and smart heroines, shall we? You can tell me your favourites!” 

Chip tugged again on his arm, pointing toward a row of books with gold trim and silvery titles. 

“Fantasy stories,” Adam nodded, “Let’s go.” 

 _Seven novels_ , Adam couldn’t help but marvel,  _Seven at once. How does Belle do it?_ This _is why I love her…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this thing I saw and reblogged on my Tumblr (note my new username on Tumblr too): http://naturepointstheway.tumblr.com/post/181841543526/great-tweets-there-is-nothing-new-under-the-sun


	3. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Adam have a little heart to heart over coffee before breakfast early in the morning, a heartfelt conversation that ends with him stunned by a small touch of affection that leaves him shaken.

Twin curls of steam swirl from the cups of coffee cradled between Belle and the Beast’s hands. Belle stretches her legs out under the table, wriggling her toes and stretching her ankles to chase away the last of sleep’s aches. Her hair is loose about her shoulders, and Adam has a hard time not just staring at how, though unbrushed, it frames her face in such a way as to accentuate her strong chin and high cheekbones. He marvels at how lovely she looks–if only he could look that good waking up, even when he had once been human. Then again, Belle never, as far as he knew, woke up with face paint smudged over half his face, and lipstick smeared from having rubbed his face in the night while sleeping. 

“What?” 

Adam twitches, blinks, steadies his coffee in time. Belle has caught him staring. Suddenly self-conscious, he busies himself with a sip of coffee, holding it carefully between his paws, claws clinking against the ceramic. He forgets to blow on the coffee in his flustered moment, and he winces as it burns his tongue. 

“You…you look beautiful for someone who just woke up.” 

Belle arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. Adam isn’t sure, just looking at her face, if she has taken offence. 

“I mean it as a compliment,” he hastily explains, “You don’t want to know what I looked like waking up.” 

“Today or…” 

“Either way, I always seem to wake up…beastly, these days.” 

One corner of Belle’s mouth twitches in a hint of a smile, held back, as though trying not to laugh at the rather lame pun. 

“Are you joking again?” 

He shrugs, but can’t help a sly sidelong smile at her. “Maybe.” 

“I’ve finished that book you loaned me,” Belle says after an interlude of silence, the only music the melody of birdsong. 

“Loaned? They’re your books as much as they are mine.” 

“Still, it’s polite to give people back their books, preferably in the condition it was before.” 

“Speaking from experience, Belle?” 

Belle leans back on the plush sapphire-hued cushion at her back. “Lucky for me, no, but I’d be very annoyed if someone to return a book to me in worse condition.”

“My father loved to throw any books I was reading across the room, breaking their spines,” Adam confesses, and he tries not to let his bitterness show, “He hated me reading in my own time.” 

Belle’s jaw drops open, the picture of one utterly appalled. “He did?” 

“I couldn’t hide all the books I liked most from him, especially the ones my mother had loved.” 

Adam doesn’t know what’s making him open up like this, as he never had before. Belle has shifted around, so she directly faces him, listening, bringing her coffee up for another long sip. 

“My mother…she loved to read me to sleep.” 

“I expect my mother did too, at least when I was a baby.” 

“I like to think all good mothers do.” 

A genuine smile, one so warm that Adam thought it might almost melt the winter’s curse right there and then. 

“And good fathers too. Good fathers.” 

“Your father read you to sleep?” 

“Well, not read, per se, but he told me so many stories.” 

“Oh?” Adam forgets his coffee, still held in his palms, all his attention on Belle. “Do you mind telling me what they were?” Hurriedly, not wanting to appear rude, he adds, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Belle lays a hand, soaking warmth through his sleeve from having been wrapped around her cup, “He always told me the most wonderful stories–of adventures, of my mother–not often, but occasionally–of fantastical lands he once heard about, of many things.” 

“He writes stories?” 

“No, he draws them, in his paintings, and creates them in his crafts.” 

There is poetry in the way Belle says that. And–and her hand! Her hand still rests on his arm, unafraid. Unafraid. How could she be so unafraid of him? 

“Have  _you_ written stories before?” 

“I don’t think I have,” Adam admits, trying to cast his mind back as far as possible, “Or maybe I have, but they’re probably burned anyway.” 

“Burned?” 

“Father.” Just one word, flat and without emotion, suppressing black memories. “It wouldn’t surprise me.” 

“He would burn your stories? Don’t tell me he burned books too!” 

“Wouldn’t be shocked.”

“That’s terrible!” 

Adam shrugs in the dismissive way one does when they’ve long accepted their lot in life, but it still hangs, nonetheless, over their shoulders and hides in their nightmares. 

“It was what it was, I suppose. He wasn’t exactly…friendly.” 

“That’s so horrible,” Belle’s hand squeezes firm on his arm, and his heart aches with some years-long yearning, “I’m so sorry. Everyone should read what they desire, especially children.” She drains the last of her coffee, and takes his empty cup, ready to take them back to the kitchen. “Humans need stories so much. So much that we made stories out of the stars, created constellations to tell them.” 

“That’s true,” Adam agrees, remembering how he had learned all the constellations in the night sky as a child. He’d loved how Lumiere had dramatised all the tales written in the Milky Way’s pages. 

Belle stands up, careful not to drop the cups as she places them down on the table, straightening up again. The weak, but soft nevertheless, sunrise suffuses her hair in a heavenly halo. His heart skips a beat at the sight, thrums in his chest. He thinks he could be falling in love already, but he quashes that in a moment, convinced it still an impossible happily-ever-after, at least for him. 

“I’m taking these back down to the kitchen,” Belle nods at the cups, and then approaches him and, to his shock, bends down and wraps her arms around his shoulders, best she can, in what is unmistakeably a hug. The first hug he’d ever had since…since…

“Th–thank you…” he whispers, staring at her as she stands back up out of the hug. 

She nods, gives him another warm smile, picking up the empty cups again. 

“You’re welcome. See you at breakfast.”

_How is she not afraid? She is a miracle._

Adam is still staring after the door, long after she has exited, the aroma of coffee still hanging about him, the ghost of her arms around his shoulders still warm on his shirt. 

So when the door opens again, he jumps in fright, although it is only Plumette wafting in, apparently searching for Belle. 

“Have you seen Belle, Master?” Plumette stops midway between the door and the couch where he is still sitting so still, still stunned, “Have you, by chance, seen a ghost or two this morning?” 

It takes at least a couple very deep breaths before he can trust his voice not to shake when he answers her, vivid memories of when they once were children, and she’d had the softest hugs ever, the hugs of a sister to her adored younger brother. 

“She hugged me,” his voice is barely above a whisper, and Plumette moves closer, so she might hear better, “Belle hugged me. I’ve almost forgotten what that felt like.” 

He doesn’t trust himself to say any more, least he lose his composure, least his voice crack. 

Plumette, bless her, seems to understand all the same, and she moves closer to him, touching his hand with a wing, as unafraid–at least for now–as Belle had been. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to, for she knows him so well that no words are needed. 

Such is the strength of a friendship when one can talk without a word. 


	4. Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly wedded, Mrs Potts reflects on all she leaves behind, the country she once called home, as she sails with Mr Potts to France to settle into a new home there, in a place called Villeneuve.

If Mrs Potts– _Mrs Beatrice Potts,_ she still wasn’t used to that–had to listen to Jean moan about how he was dying from seasickness one more time, she would surely consider throwing him out into the water herself just to get some peace and quiet. She’d hoped the journey from England to France to settle in a little village called Villeneuve would be less rocky (but the North Sea, as usual, abhorred a calm day), and more romantic (she didn’t think seasickness could be that bad), but no, she was effectively on her own. She was much disinclined to stay in their cabin and listen to Jean complain about how seasick he felt, while not moving from the bed for fresh air ( _really, must I do everything for him?_ she’d snipe in her own thoughts), nor taking much food or drink, lest it returned the other way. 

“Just have a drink of water, for pity’s sake!” Beatrice had snapped at him once or twice, “Dry toast, some broth, that’ll cure it in no time! Really, you’re making much ado about nothing.” 

“Just because  _you_ don’t get seasick…” 

“It cannot be as terrible as you make it out to be. But, fine, if you want to just moan about it instead, be my guest.”

She wasn’t sure if the journey was also having an effect on her mood–turning it stormier than usual–or it was just her husband’s state of mind and seasickness. She’d hoped that this seasickness of his would subside after a day or so (her stomach was still staying steel strong despite the swells rocking the boat to and fro), and still he complained about his ill health. 

Eventually, after one too many attempts at cajoling him to get some fresh air or a cup of water or food, Beatrice decided to give up, choosing instead to spend time getting to know other passengers, drinking a wine with them (even if she drank a little too much, her stomach still held strong), having a long chat, filled with laughter, long into the small hours of night, or just simply standing at a window or on deck, marvelling at the crown of stars on the night sky. She fancied their reflections on the ocean swell as fireflies or little glowworms blinking and winking and flickering in the water. A quarter moon, its pale face half-formed, gazed back down on the bobbing ship, awashing the deck and cabins in pearly light. 

Leaning back in a chair, her half-filled glass of wine at her side, Beatrice considered the constellations, Polaris as steady as ever, never moving from its hallowed throne in the celestial sphere. Its steadiness contrasted with the sea rocking under the ship’s belly, and its brightness competed for attention with the growing moon. Its bevy of citizens and servants glittered and guttered in the blustery wind whipping off the waves. At least in just two days or so, she would be on her feet again, in a new country, legs as steady as Polaris was night after night, year after year. Only her heart wavered, longing still for the land she still called home in her heart of hearts: England. 

England–the rolling green and racing strips of rain pitter-pattering to the grass and the mud and the cobblestones. The nightingales and sparrows and crows and foxes and nimble hares and floating dragonflies on the perimeters of still ponds, all to the evening tune of croaking frogs and twittering robins and tomtits. That was her England, that was her home, that was her land. How could she have ever thought to part from it? To part from Stonehenge’s ancient stones, to never see again abandoned castles with ghosts of dead queens and kings, to say goodbye to musty libraries and cramped yet welcoming little stores full of curious antiques and great-great ancestors’ brittle teacups and saucers. How could she part from father’s affinity for horses and mother’s guidance and her sisters and brothers? 

She knew Ireland in the fiery spirit of her next door neighbour with her red hair shot through with silver, and with her crowd of dogs playing in the yard or barking at passing postmen and carriages. She knew Scotland in the whiskies she’d shared with another family down the road with nine children and so much love to spare. She knew Wales in the gentle eyes and strange Welsh language of the little girl adopted by the Irish neighbour, when she had been discovered wandering alone and orphaned. 

That was her England, that was her childhood. 

And now she sailed forth to France, a land unknown. 

She drained the last of her wine, eyes locked on rock steady, bright Polaris circled by constellations she’d known in England, and that were, even now, sailing with her to France. They were familiar, they were reminders of home, they gave her hope that she would find some familiarity and a home in France too. She raised her empty glass to Polaris sitting proud on its throne in the castle of stars, promising to herself she would stay strong, that one day she would find a home as hallowed as hers back in England. 

Polaris twinkled, and the stars about it twinkled in turn, silent messages of courage and strength of heart. 


	5. Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam is intrigued when Chip asks, with much excitement and hope, whether the magical Atlas can take people to the Moon. Post-curse.

One wet afternoon, Chip stops Adam in one of the many hallways of the castle, his face lit up with the expression only a child with a possibly mischievous idea can. 

“Prince Adam!” he shouts up, bouncing on his heels, overcome with the excitement of whatever idea was circulating in his head, “Do you think it can take people to the moon?’ 

“Huh?” Adam asks, befuddled, “Can  _what_ take people to the moon?” 

“Your book! The magic one!” 

_Huh…that is a good question._

“To be honest, Chip, I really don’t know.” 

“You didn’t try to?” Chip looks disappointed. “Why?” 

“Guess it never crossed my mind,” Adam shrugged, but now the wheels are turning in his head. Funny how once an idea never considered gets stuck in one’s head, it never really goes away. 

Chip grabs one of his hands and tried to tug him in the direction of the library. 

“I always wanted to see the moon! We can try to go there!” 

“Uh, you sure that’s a good idea? The moon looks very cold up there.” 

“We can wear coats and scarfs.” 

A fair, sensible solution. 

“That’s what mama would say, anyway.” Chip tugged again on Adam’s arm, still eager to try out the magic atlas. “Haven’t you ever wanted to see the moon? For  _real_?” 

“You really want to go, huh?” Adam couldn’t help but laugh, good-natured, at the pure enthusiasm of a little boy intent on adventures. 

_But then…well, why not?_

After all, Adam had just finished up important paperwork, and Belle had gone to Villeneuve for a few days to be with her father. The other servants were off doing their own things, Chapeau cleaning out some cabinets in a study, Mrs Potts down in the kitchen rostering the next kitchen shifts, and Lumiere was last seen sneaking macaroons out of the castle with Plumette at his side. 

Adam let Chip pull him to the library, where he made a beeline, the prince in willing tow, to the Atlas that still stood on the desk that it called home. He wondered now how it had never occurred to him to try going to the moon as a Beast, where there would be no living thing but himself. He would’ve done that as a child too, but more out of the sense of fun and adventure, rather than a conviction that no one would care where he went. 

He shook himself mentally out of these dangerously spiraling thoughts and forcibly cast it back to the present. Chip had let go of his hand and was leaning over the table to take a closer look at the magic atlas. 

“Let’s go!” 

“Wait, wait,” Adam cautioned, “What about our scarves and coats?” 

“We’ll just get blankets from over in that corner,” Chip pointed to where a few blankets were folded away on an armchair. “I’ll get two.” 

Adam waited as Chip ran to fetch two of the heavy woollen blankets, and came back with them dragging on the floor. Adam gratefully took one blanket, putting it around his own shoulders. Chip tugged his one over his head like a hood and clutched it tight around himself.

“I’m ready to go to the moon, are you?” 

Adam took one of Chip’s hands and placed it gently on the Atlas. 

“Alright, Chip, think very, very hard about the Moon, and it’ll take us there.” 

“Got it!” 

Chip squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, his face screwed up with the act of intense concentration, and suddenly–

The library turned dark as night, and Adam felt a soft wooshing followed by dead quiet that sent a great shiver up his spine. It wasn’t the same sort of dead silence of three in the morning with only Belle’s soft sighs in her slumber to break the quietude. No, this was absolute, so absolute that Adam wondered if this is what it was to be deaf. It was no wonder, then, that he jumped in fright when he heard Chip’s voice again. 

“Is this the moon yet?” 

“I don’t think so,” Adam whispered, “I feel like we’re nearly there though.” 

“Maybe I didn’t think hard eno– _whoa.”_

 _There._ There was the lunar landscape, not the perfect marble and grey sphere he had envisioned it to be. He’d grown up his whole life learning how the Moon was a perfect sphere, only to be corrected by Belle who had read in one of his books that some Florentine man named Galileo saw valleys and mountains through his telescope. But he wasn’t seeing this lunar geography through a telescope, he was  _right there._

“Prince Adam! Look at all the stars!” Chip pointed straight up, and Adam craned his neck back to see thousands upon thousands of stars littered in every direction he looked–up, to the horizons, and he wouldn’t be surprised if there were more out of sight under his feet. “I think we’re in a hole.” 

Adam realised they had, in fact, ended up inside a vast canyon with stepped walls and a mound of rock in the middle that was taller than he.

“A crater, Chip, I think we’re in a crater.” 

And what was  _that_ stunning round blue marble hanging in the sky, a gibbous shape? 

“Chip,” he pointed now at the strangely familiar orb still in the sky, “See that? What do you think that is?” 

The boy turned to look at it too, his mouth dropping open in fascinated awe. 

“That’s more beautiful than even your castle.” 

Adam, to his credit, privately admitted that Chip was right on that count. There was so much bright blue, like the wide Pacific Ocean he’d seen on many maps, and a hint of South America starting to wheel into view. Wisps and flourishes of clouds curled around the globe, and he was sure he saw the hint of Antarctica. Which could only mean one thing…

“Chip…that’s  _Earth._ Do you see that? _”_

“It’s Earth?” 

“Doesn’t it look exactly like the globes in my library? See, that’s the Pacific Ocean! And South America!” Adam paused, catching his breath, trying very hard not to tear up in front of the boy. “And yes, it’s far more beautiful than my castle, isn’t it?” 

 _“_ I want to go back and show mama and Plumette and Lumiere and Belle the Earth and moon too.” 

Adam smiled down at the boy, his heart full of the sight of the Earth spinning glorious and magnificent above the moon’s horizon. 

“Nothing stopping us, is there?” 

“Let’s do that.” 

Adam took one last look at that beautiful, fragile world, and for the first time in his life, wondered how he could ever think all his riches so priceless when he was standing on the moon, gazing upon the world everyone called home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I like to think that the Atlas magically protected them from the extremely hostile environment of the moon, which, because it has no atmosphere, means nothing to breathe there either. I imagine it protected them against the extreme cold/heat depending on which side of the moon they landed on, and of course all the ultraviolet radiation bombarding the surface. Agathe's already taken care of that with her magical...protectionathingamingie. 
> 
> I also imagined that Agathe made sure that as long as he was under the curse, he would be unable to fling himself to the moon, much less the rest of the solar system (like, you know, the sun), forever either.


	6. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Christmas Eve during the curse, Belle and Adam come down to join the staff in the kitchen.

Christmas under the curse was never a wholly sad affair--Lumiere made right sure of that. He refused to allow any of us to be down in the dumps come Christmas Eve, leading the way in the singing and the dancing (the dancing was mostly him, for he still had his legs, unlike most the rest of us). Naturally, dear Chapeau would strike up his violin, the instrument that sung for him, for he never liked to sing himself, even despite Lumiere’s constant good-natured pestering him about it. 

Each of us had our favourite Christmas tune--I favoured the bright, cheery carols that drew me back through the decades to my childhood, my memories swimming with snow, sleds, hands chafed and red from snowman building and snowball fights, and thick leather boots stomping through the crunchy snow, and tilting our faces up toward the sky to feel snowflakes brush over our cheeks and rest on our foreheads. 

Chip, being the dear child he is, favoured them all, as children are wont to do. Well, perhaps not the slower, heavier, more sombre-toned carols so much. But he sung along with the best of us, though at times he asked why the prince--yes, he is a beast now, but he is still human, not an animal--does not join us for Christmas celebration if he loved us all so much once upon a time. (I still believe he cares about us, even if he refuses to admit or show it.) 

Well, how to tell a child how complicated life is for us grown-ups who have weathered the storms and whirlwinds of life? That nothing is all black, but then nothing is all white? All I tell him is that Prince Adam has his own reasons not to join us for Christmas, and that he is happier alone on this merry day. Some people are just that way. 

I don’t believe for a second Chip was fully convinced about that explanation, but he has not asked me again since, so I like to think he is satisfied enough for now. For now--Chip loves to ask questions, and I know that even if he never asks a question again about how the world works or why people do what they do, he will ask again one day.

Well, that was quite the tangent. Back to this Christmas Eve, which might be like any other, were it not for Belle in the castle. I hoped she might come down at least, for we have not shared a merry Christmas without a human for a long time--yes, of course, of course we’re human, but how human can you feel when you’re a teapot and you know you might always be one? 

Oh dear. Let’s not think of such things. We still have time, I know it--surely Belle is the one to break the curse. She and Adam--I refuse to call him “the beast” or “a beast” because of all the things in the world he is, at least inside, he’s not that--they have been becoming such close friends, lost in their worlds of books, deep discussions, outside walks in the fresh wintry air, and it may have not been long, but there is that strong hint of a deep love--the true, deep kind of love--does not need months and years, no, it can be in weeks. 

Tonight, this Christmas Eve, once again, as usual, all of us were clustered in the kitchen, pretending we were not dreaming of tasting chocolate puddings and roast ham and mince pies again, trying not to think of delightful presents resting at the foot of our beds come Christmas morning, and trying not to think about the curse for once. Lumiere and Plumette waltzed all around the kitchen, Cuisiner’s stove heated the kitchen until we might have been roasting like Christmas hams were we human, Chapeau’s soothing music embracing everyone like old friends, Cogsworth listened patiently in the corner to Chip’s babbling at him, and oh, how could any Christmas Eve be better? 

Turns out, it could, for once. 

When the hour had become late, after nine--Chip would usually be tucked in his little bed in the cupboard by now, but Christmas Eve is always an exception--I imagined--or perhaps not, after all--that I heard claws clacking on the wooden floor beyond one of the doors. I fancied--or had I, after all--I heard Belle’s voice urging him not to be silly, that really, the servants--meaning us--did love him, she could see it in the way we were around him, and the way we talked about him, in our voices, in the way we’d thanked her so deeply from our hearts when she’d brought him in from the cold, injured from wolves, healed his wounds--

The door creaked open, and all our attention flew to it--even Lumiere and Plumette stopped their dancing to rush over to see who was coming. All of us were already here, who could it be? 

Who, it turned out, was Belle, peeking around the door, eyes alight in warmth and merriment, and seeing us all looking at her, stepped into the doorway. Plumette, Lumiere, and I all rushed over at once. 

“Belle! How lovely of you to come down!” 

“Miss! I was about to ask you to join us!” 

“Thank you for coming to see us on Christmas Eve, what might Lumiere and I do for your dessert tonight?” 

Belle grinned. “ _Our_ dessert.” 

“But Belle--” protested Adam from somewhere behind her. 

“Oh,  _really_ ,” Belle looked over her shoulder, tugging insistently at who could only be Adam. “No need to be silly. They won’t bite you.” A cheeky pause. “I think.”

Belle walked inside, followed shortly by a much more hesitant Adam, who shuffled--more or less--into the kitchen, unsure and hesitant. 

“Good--I mean good evening? Christmas eve evening.” 

“Master!” Lumiere shouted from his place on the table, obviously overcome with jubilance, “Good of you to come down too! We’ve been waiting forever for you to join us again!” 

A look of surprise from Adam, uncertain eyes drawn to Lumiere, but he could not hold back the smallest of smiles. 

“You have?” 

“Always,” I affirmed, rolling my tea tray up to him, “Now come in and sit down, and we’ll get you and Belle a comfortable Christmas Eve supper, shall we?” 

“Yes!” Lumiere cried, almost skidding off the table in his excitement as he danced upon it, candles flaring brighter than I’d ever seen them do before, “Please! Stay! Eat! Dine! Drink! Rest! Relax! Laugh!” 

“Lumiere, calm down for God’s sake!” Cogsworth chided from where he sat on a bench with Chip, but I could tell that he was just as happy as the rest of us were to see the prince come down for Christmas Eve for the first time since--

Well, the first time, really, since the poor boy’s mother had died, and his father had forbade him to join us for Christmases in the kitchen. And even after his father’s passing, he still had never come down to join us, and we’d eventually convinced ourselves he would never do so again, short of a miracle. 

But miracles do happen, and seeing him among us again, sitting beside Belle, who laid a gentle hand on his paw, was, to me, the perfect definition of a “Christmas Miracle”. 


	7. Sketchbook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plumette reveals her many sketches of celestial phenomena to Adam, prompting him to ask her to be the castle's official astronomer.

There was something about the fountains under the full moon that made them look so magical, spouting water sparkling in ethereal pearl. The beauty of the Milky Way retreated to allow the full moon to shine in all its glory, reaching moonbeams down to smell rose petals and listen to the soothing music of crickets composing out of sight in the gardens. 

Adam, a glass of red wine in hand, strolled down a stone path crunching with autumn underfoot, a little field mouse hurrying past out of his way so it might not be trod upon and missed by its family nearby. A fresh breeze tousled Adam’s loose hair, strands brushing up against his face, tickling his nose until he thought he might sneeze. 

Strolling idly down one of the many paths leading to one fountain or another, Adam spotted a figure sitting on the ground, face tilted up to the moon. On closer look, he recognised the figure to be Plumette, sitting cross-legged on the perimeter of the fountain, feet bare, toes wiggling in an almost absent-minded fashion. As Adam looked on, she tore her gaze from the moon and bent over her lap again, doing something he couldn’t quite see. 

Deciding he might as well stop to converse a few minutes with Plumette–he had been so busy all day he barely had time to take a moment out of his day just to talk to a friend or even Belle–Adam ambled over and quietly sat down a couple feet from her. She was so deep in her work, sketching something into a little thick sketchbook, she didn’t appear to notice him. 

“I’m not interrupting you am I, Plumette?’ 

Plumette glanced up, then back down at her drawing, resuming her work with impressive speed. 

“Not at all,” she mumbled, “I’m a little busy, sorry.” 

“I can go away then, if you want.” 

Adam started to stand up, but Plumette stopped her drawing, looking up at him, gesturing across from her. 

“No, please stay.” 

Adam settled down again, one hand leaning on the cool marble of the fountain, idly playing with a dry leaf that had fluttered down from a nearby tree. 

“May I ask what you’re drawing?” 

“The full moon, and the sky.” 

“For Lumiere?” 

Plumette paused in her drawing, tapping her pencil against the paper, before looking up with a smile as she proffered it to him. 

“Here, take a look through if you desire.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve finished the drawing anyhow.” 

Adam took the thick pad from her, squinting in the light of the moon as he turned to the beginning, his jaw dropping open as he looked at all the dedicated little scribbles and observations. There were labels in her always-elegant handwriting that identified the planets, constellations, the phase of the moon, and the date and time in the corner. Adam had never seen anything like it, and so taken was he by it that he didn’t notice when he knocked his wine off the ledge into the fountain, the tinkering of glass going unheard. 

“This…this is…Plumette, why did I never know of this?” 

Plumette shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d care,” she said bluntly, “I only began a few years after your father passed away.” 

“Oh.” Adam wasn’t quite sure why he felt so deflated about never having known. 

“Lumiere knows about this of course, as does Cogsworth, who helped me with the names and making proper sketches.” 

“You did this all yourself?” Adam couldn’t stop turning the pages, eyes locked on the intricately detailed drawings. “Every night?” 

Plumette laughed softly. “Not every night, but many nights to be sure.” 

“Plumette…” Adam looked up at her, cradling the book in his hands like it was a newborn baby, “Have you considered being an astronomer?” 

A sigh, one longing and sad. “If I were born a man–”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Adam surmised, “And you are clearly as dedicated as any astronomer in history. And many kings in history had an astronomer to aide him in the celestial happenings above him.” 

“Yes?” Was that the tiniest notes of a hope not dared voiced too loud? 

“And I can see you are in love with the heavens above,” Adam closed the sketchpad and handed it back to her as carefully as if it were her own baby. “Would you consider being the official astronomer in my staff?” 

Plumette gasped. “Are you…are you serious? Because if you’re just teasing me, I swear to God I’ll push you into this fountain, and you’ll be walking to bed wet and cold and dripping.” 

“No, I’m fully serious!” Adam assured her, hoping she wouldn’t really push him into the fountain. “ _Would_ you?” 

“Well…yes, yes, I would. I’d be honoured.” 

Adam smiled, reaching back for his glass, and, not finding it, turned to see where it had gone. He spotted it twinkling from the bottom of the fountain, twinkling in the moonlight.

So much for a toast.

“So, where’s Lumiere?” he asked. 

“Last I saw him, he was down in the kitchen joking around with Cusinier and Chapeau. Why?” 

“Let’s go look for him then,” Adam said, grinning, joyful she’d accepted his offer to be castle astronomer so quickly and eagerly, “I’m confident he’ll want to be the first to hear this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for having gone AWOL for several months on this thing! (This chapter actually had been written several months ago on my Tumblr, but apparently never got around to adding it here too.) University took over in a big way, which meant these prompts went down the priority list in an exponential fashion. However, now that I have more time (aside from two exams coming up in a couple days) for the next three-ish weeks, I can try to get the rest of the prompts done, including cross-overs with at least two other fandoms (not all at the same time though.)


	8. Doll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-over with Harry Potter (though it does not feature any characters from aforementioned saga, other than a brief mention of Hagrid.)

The train meandered onward to the distant sparkle of light that was Hogwarts castle. Belle leaned her head back on her headrest, closing her eyes, hands lightly resting on the leather cover of her journal. The floor of the train rumbled under her feet in a gentle rhythm as she tried not to think about her father, who would be left alone for the next several months while she was at Hogwarts. 

“My little girl. A Hogwarts student,” Maurice had whispered as he clung on to her in a tight hug earlier that day before she crossed the barrier onto Platform 9 3/4. “You’ll be the smartest witch around.” 

Belle let herself drift off, thinking she’d take just a few minutes’ snooze, only to wake up about an hour later to someone gingerly shaking her shoulder. She turned to see a shy-looking girl with blue eyes and brown hair like hers--though much curlier--shaking her awake. The once-quiet train now echoed with the voices of excited students and frustrated yells of prefects, and the rumble under her feet came from stomping students, and not the now-still train. 

“Hi?” the curly-haired girl said in a soft, shy voice, “Just wanted to say we’re at Hogwarts.” 

A thump at Belle’s feet--glancing down, she discovered her book had slipped, forgotten, from her knees to the floor. 

“Thanks for waking me,” Belle smiled at the girl, who had  bent down to pick up the fallen tome, handing it back to her, “Thanks for the book.” 

“Can we go in the same boat together?” asked the girl while Belle tried to shove the book back into her satchet.

“Sure! What’s your name?” 

“Eva.” 

“Eva, nice to meet you,” Belle stood up, holding out her hand for the other girl--who was at least a couple inches shorter than her--”I’m Belle.” 

“I’m just going to get my things, okay? We can meet outside?” 

“I’ll wait for you outside the door,” Belle promised, smiling as Eva rushed away to gather her own belongings. 

 

As promised, the two girls found each other outside, and immediately started following the other First Years and Hagrid to the lantern-speckled boats that would take them across the lake to Hogwarts Castle. 

“I hope that boy won’t be in our boat,” Eva confided to Belle. 

“Which boy?” 

“He made fun of me earlier this afternoon because I had my doll out,” Eva explained, pulling out a small doll from her satchet, “I call her Bluebird.” 

“Bluebird is a sweet name for your doll,” Belle commented, “And if that boy makes fun of you again, point him out to me because I can throw a pretty good punch.” 

“Really?” 

Belle grinned, “And I’ve already started reading up on the best spells to use on people who won’t leave me alone. I can teach you a few.” She frowned. In a quieter voice, she asked, “Who was the boy?” 

“Called himself Adam. Think he’s French.” 

“Well, Adam can go away. At least he won’t be in our boat, because we’ll have it to ourselves.” 

“You sure about that?” A grumpy voice said from behind them. 

Both Belle and Eva whipped around to see a grumpy blonde-haired boy tromping behind them, a permanent scowl on his face. 

“Are you Adam?” Belle demanded, narrowing her eyes at him, even as the girls kept walking on. 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, you’re a mean, judgy so-and-so.” In her head, Belle called him a much ruder word, one she was sure her father would be appalled that she knew. Besides, she didn’t want to risk any of the prefects overhearing her using words an eleven-year-old really shouldn’t. 

“So?” grumped Adam. 

“So don’t make fun of Eva’s doll and learn to shut up when your “opinion” isn’t called for.” 

With that, Belle tossed her head and flung a protective arm around the girl’s shoulders, just as they approached what turned out to be the only boat left vacant. She groaned inwardly. Just their luck. Now they would have to put up with Adam after all. 

“You can sit by me,” Belle said to Eva, bending down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear, “And leave your doll out right where that idiot can see. Don’t let him win.” 

Eva clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a giggle. 

Once in the boat, Belle and Eva clung on to the sides as Adam rocked it with his stomping into the craft and plopping down on the seat next to the lantern. Now that all the First Years were in the boats, the little fleet began to sail its way to the doors of Hogwarts. 

“So, what house do you think you’ll get in?” Belle asked Eva, who had her doll diligently sitting on her knee, illuminated by the lantern.

“I want to go in Ravenclaw, because I like learning.” 

“Me too!” Belle exclaimed, raising her hand to give Eva a high five. 

“We could be in the same house!” 

“I hope so too--you seem like a pretty sweet girl to me.” 

Eva ducked her head, and even through the cloud of curls, Belle could see her blushing crimson. 

“You’re not about to ask me are you?” Adam asked. 

“We don’t want care because you’re mean!” Belle snapped, eyes flashing in the light. 

“For your information, I don’t want Slytherin.” 

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that where all mean boys go?” 

“I’m not mean!” 

“Yes you are. You’re definitely in Slytherin, Adam.” 

“I’m NOT going in Slytherin!” the boy yelled, making Eva jump, and a couple heads from their neighbouring boats whipped around to stare, agape. “I’m never going where father wants me to!” 

“Then where do you want to go?” 

“I don’t care, long as it’s not Slytherin!” the boy’s hands were in tight fists, digging his knuckles into his knees.

“And pray it’s not Ravenclaw, because we don’t like you, Adam.”

“And I don’t want Hufflepuff either.”

“So you’re wanting Gryffindor then?” Belle deducted, raising an eyebrow. 

“Anywhere but Slytherin.” 

With that, the boy folded his arms and turned his back to them, staring out to Hogwarts. Belle and Eva shared a not too subtle eyeroll behind his back. 

“We’ll be in Ravenclaw together,” she whispered, “And we won’t have to see him again.” 

 

_Ugh! That stupid Sorting Hat!_

Apparently, the Sorting Hat had other ideas that Belle did  _not_ like in the least. She stabbed her fork into her roast pumpkin, refusing to look up at Adam seated across from her. Belle was happy to be in Ravenclaw, and as far as she could tell, Eva didn’t seem to mind being in Hufflepuff, but of course Adam had to be sorted into Ravenclaw too. Of  _course._

Belle made the mistake of looking up from her dinner, pumpkin halfway to her mouth, locking eyes with Adam. She lowered her fork, refusing to break eye contact with the boy.

“So. You happy?”

“Better than Slytherin.” 

“What is it with you and Slytherin?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

Was that a flicker of fear in his face, a passing worried look tugging at his mouth? Belle realised he wasn’t even eating his dinner, merely pushing it around and picking at it. His shoulders looked like they were slumping under his cloak, and he looked somehow smaller now than he had on the boat. Her temper soothed by her dinner, Belle felt a pang of guilt for having snapped at him so, though deep down she thought he had quite deserved it. 

“Hey.” 

He didn’t look up from pushing his cooling mashed potatoes into his gravy. 

“Hey, hellooo? Adam!”

“What.” 

“Are you feeling okay?” 

“Fine.” 

“You’re not eating anything.” 

“Not hungry.” 

To Belle’s surprise, he abruptly stood up, removed himself from his seat, and walked away to talk to one of the Ravenclaw prefects, who at first looked concerned, then surprised, then concerned again, before nodding and getting up. Belle strained to hear what was being said, but all she could hear was “the Ravenclaw common room” and “you’re not alone”. 

She tried to catch his eye again as he and the prefect walked past her, but his eyes never left the floor, and perhaps she was imagining things, but he seemed to be quaking like he was scared of something. 

Or perhaps even of someone. 

Only when he disappeared out of the dining hall, did Belle return to her dinner, her head full of questions and puzzles. 


	9. Egyptology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle finds out exactly why you do NOT go into the Restricted Section in Hogwarts' library. Fortunately, someone comes along to save her in the nick of time.

Belle knew she really shouldn’t be sneaking through the castle at night to the library to have a look at the restricted section. Honestly, she shouldn’t even  _be_ entertaining the idea of sneaking into the restricted section, but her curiosity was far too strong to resist, and eventually, one night, she gave in after waiting for the perfect night to sneak out while everyone in her dorm were all fast asleep. 

After giving the bronze eagle knocker on the door some little white lie about needing to have some time with her pet owl, Belle let the door shut behind her, leaving her alone in the empty hall full of snoring portraits outside. The candlelight was down low, so low, she had to cast a  _lumos_ with her wand so she could see a little better, tip-toeing her way down and up hallways, twisting stairs, and sneaking past doorways to the library. 

At long last, she stood in front of the entry into the library, heart skipping a beat, a jitter of excitement prickling down her spine. Biting her lower lip in nervous thrill, Belle padded her way into the library, her lit wand held before her. The smallest noises, even her hand bumping lightly against the corner of a desk, seemed to boom around the library with the roar of the dining hall at lunchtime. Rustling paper like someone turning the pages surrounded her, a noise so convincing she had to remind herself there was likely no-one else in the library but her. It was just magic in the air, the books reading their own words, and the pens scribbling their own sleepy midnight-laden stories. Even the librarian would have long retired to her own bed to dream of the soul of the star Sirius stuck in the body of a dog as punishment for a murder he did not commit.

Belle’s wand finally found the words RESTRICTED SECTION, clapping a hand over her mouth in a jumble of excitement and nerves. She’d made it, and all without anyone seeing her! It was half a miracle, she dared to think, that even the portraits were all snoozing and no teachers (nor, heaven forbid, Mr Filch and his cat) prowling the halls looking for students out of bed, trying to manage mischief without being spotted. She dismissed the shadow of a human clad in a cloak as just another spot of magic. The library would not drive her away from the Restricted Section, no matter how much it tried! 

Still, Belle edged tentative feet onto the floor of the restricted section, her breath as soundless as possible. To be extra cautious, she held her hand over the lit end of her wand, at first taking fright and then laughing in quiet relief when the shadow of her hand on the walls spooked her. There was nothing to be afraid of, except being spotted by Mrs Norris or Filch or a prefect or head boy/girl. Surely here there wasn’t anything to be afraid of. 

_Perhaps they’re like Muggle banned books,_ she had decided a long time ago,  _And these are the Magical likes of that._

Still, her fingers trembled as she stroked a skeletal spine with fur sticking out. It shuddered and then gave what sounded like a content growl before falling silent. Strolling down the aisle, Belle let her fingers bump over and trace down long-forgotten, long-world-weary spines that had seen centuries of students and teachers walk past in occasional pursuit of a book. 

_Egyptology: A Study of Curses, Charms, and Spells of the Pharaohs._

She stumbled to a stop, hand stilling on the book’s gilded spine. Like every other child–at least in the muggleworld anyway–she’d had her own Ancient Egypt phase, full of King Tutankhamun, ancient pyramids, mummies, and hieroglyphics. She’d tried to write her own name in hieroglyphics once when she was eight, only for her father to stop her with a shake of his head, and fear in his eyes like she had done something dangerous. She didn’t try that again. She hadn’t dared to ask why, not wanting to scare her father more. 

But now she was 11, and surely old enough to read hieroglyphic spells. She was old enough to be careful of spells. She understood her father tended to overprotect sometimes, and, much as she loved him, found it a little overwhelming at times. 

The Egyptology book was heavy and thick, so Belle set down her wand first before raising herself on her tippy-toes to wrench the book out, letting out a gasp as it slipped out of her grasp and flopped onto a ledge. She looked around behind her as though to make extra certain no one was in the library. 

“Okay, here I go,” she said aloud. 

Setting the book right side up, she opened the cover with its blue bordering and moving illustration of Osiris and Isis, with the gods Horus and Anubis at their sides, finding that the pages were all made of ancient papyrus, yellowed at the edges, splattered with suspicious splotches of black ink and scabby red pigment Belle hoped wasn’t blood. A green smelly streak had been wiped across the page by a previous student, and a squished unidentifiable spider was entombed between the cover and the first page. Only its head and a couple legs poked out. 

Belle didn’t think the book so bad, and, confidence boosted, she leafed through the pages, running eyes and fingertips over old illustrations, Ancient Egyptian symbols, and names of Pharaohs gone by. The gods’ names were in hieroglyphics, without any usual helpful pronunciation guide in brackets. At least she knew who they were by their animal heads–Anubis, Thoth, Sekhmet, Horus–or by what they wore on their heads. Osiris with his tall red and white hat that always reminded Belle of a bowling pin, Isis with the seat of a throne hovering over her, Selket with the deformed scorpion resting on her scalp, and Nephthys with the simple house icon. 

She came to a page with just one warning written on it: “These curses were found on tombs, and have the potency of an Unforgivable Curse. DO NOT TRY THE BELOW UNLESS YOU WANT TO GO TO AZKABAN FOREVER.”

Belle decided to move quickly past that page, lest she inadvertently let one loose. She had heard of Unforgivable Curses before, and the very idea of them occasionally gave her nightmares, especially if she was feeling feverish. She was curious, but she wasn’t stupid, and so she moved along. 

That is–until she turned a page, and a full size mummy, clad head to toe in bandages, leapt out, soaring to the top of the shelves, screaming. Belle stumbled backwards, tripping and crashing back into another bookshelf behind her, books tumbling down around her and on her head. She looked up, eyes and mouth wide in horror, as the mummy hovered over her, gradually descending upon her, its bandages falling away to reveal an emaciated body that was no more than yellow skin stretched over brittle bones. Its stomach caved in, scars showing where embalmers had eviscerated it of its organs, and an open wound where a still heart lay. 

Belle screamed as it swooped down, hands reaching out to grab her by the neck. She dodged, scrambling along up to her feet, blindly searching for her wand, only for her hand to knock it away. She crawled forward, trying not to breathe in the acrid smell of death, her hand scrabbling for her wand. Just as she reached it, a skeletal hand grasped the back of her head, forcing it down so hard on the floor she felt her nose start bleeding. She tried not to shiver as bandages started snaking around her legs, pinning them together so tight she couldn’t even twitch her toes. 

“LET ME GO!” Belle tried to scream, but the hands squeezed harder, pushing her nose into the floor. “HELP!” 

She stretched out a hand in blind faith, trying to locate her wand, her “Accio!” muffled by both floor and blood. Already, her head was pounding, her heart thumping in her chest like it was trying to get out. Stars spurted and bounced in front of her vision. And still the mummy clung on, paper cackles coughing out of its jaws and sharpened teeth. 

Just as she thought she was going to black out, she heard a familiar voice, followed by sprinting feet, yelling profanities and spells at the mummy. 

“STUPEFY! EXPELLIARMUS! STUPEFY!” 

The mummy suddenly let go of Belle with a high pitched, enraged wail that resounded through the entire library, if not the rest of the castle itself. 

“STUPEFY!” 

Finally, the mummy clattered to the floor behind her, silent and paralysed and (she hoped) dead again, but Belle’s legs were still bound, and she could taste her blood on her lips and tongue. Then, far above her, a loud  _meow._

_Mrs Norris._

“Belle?!” 

She moaned, turning her head slightly to peek at her saviour. To her surprise, even in the dim light of her wand, she saw it was that boy, Adam. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!” he demanded. “You’re not allowed in here!” 

Belle tried to sit up, but couldn’t, slumping back on the floor, forehead against the floor. Adam shook her shoulder roughly, as though trying to get her to move. 

“My legs.” 

The boy turned aside, and a second later, Belle heard an incantation followed by the bandages falling off her legs. Another distant meow as Mrs Norris scrabbled out of the library doors to find her beloved Mr Filch. 

Her legs now freed, Belle gingerly sat up, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Adam wasn’t going to let her sit for long, as he quickly stood up, tugging on her arms to make her do the same. Taking her by the wrist, he pulled her away from the restricted section and toward the exit. 

“Why were you even here at all, Belle?!” he half-yelled, “The restricted section!” 

“Why were you here in the first place?” Belle shot back. “Well after hours!” 

“Couldn’t sleep okay? At least it wasn’t because I was stupid!” 

“Who’re you calling stupid?” 

The boy stopped abruptly, whirling to face her, his hand letting go of her wrist. 

“Eleven year old girls who are idiotic enough to snoop around the restricted section, that’s who!” 

“Well, gee, thanks.” 

Belle sniffed as disdainfully as she could, but coughed as more blood from her nosebleed clogged the back of her throat. Adam stewed in silence, but didn’t leave her side even as they walked back, fast as they could to try to miss Filch, to the Ravenclaw common room. He glanced over at her from time to time, but didn’t say anything about her nosebleed. They only stopped once when a much indignant portrait called after him. 

“BOY!” shouted the portrait of an 18th century woman holding a cup of tea in one hand and a kettle in the other, red hair piled high on her head. “Aren’t you going to offer her at least a kerchief for her nosebleed? Goodness gracious! Never seen the likes of your ungentlemanliness! I ought to pour this tea on you!” 

The people in the portrait directly in her line of fire–or, as it were, potentially very hot water–quickly vacated their frame, lest they became her casualties. 

“I don’t have one!” Adam snapped up at the portrait. 

“Well I never! You ought always carry a kerchief around in times like this–excuse me, are you listening? Where are you going? Excuse–oh for–”

At least the portrait didn’t pursue them as they rushed pell-mell back to the Ravenclaw common room, only for another loud, triumphant MEOW to stop them. They whirled around to find Filch standing ten feet away, smirking in his terrifying manner, his arms clutching Mrs Norris. 

“Oh shoot,” Belle cursed under her breath. 

“Well, well, well. Look who’s been caught. No beddy-byes for you lot tonight. Follow me.” 

Belle and Adam looked at each other, Adam with wide blue eyes, and Belle biting her lip, ignoring the crust of blood that had now formed. 

“There goes Ravenclaw’s chance at winning the House Cup,” Adam remarked, but he sounded just as dismayed as she. 

“No thanks to me, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

She sighed, walking again in silence, eyes forward with only one glance back up at that nigh-offended portrait, who was now seated on her chair, shaking her head and wagging a finger at Adam as they passed. 

“The worst gentleman.” 

Belle was pretty sure the woman meant for that to be overheard. Filch stopped in his tracks, glared up at the woman, threatening her with pulling down her portrait should she insult him again. 

“Filch, that was meant for–” Adam began, but Belle nudged him hard in the ribs. 

“Let him think it was aimed at him,” Belle mumbled. 

Adam blinked at her, mouth dropping open in surprise. 

“W-what?” 

“I owe you.” 

“Owe you what?” 

Belle smiled, fighting back a big yawn. Adam returned her smile, though his was more wan, more uncertain. 

“Thank you for saving my life.” 

A surprised pause, the quiet broken only by their footsteps and snoring, mumbling portraits. 

“You’re welcome.”


	10. Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Prince Adam looks for Lumiere in the courtyard, wishing to give him a birthday present he has made himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I apparently lied: not all these remaining prompts will be crossovers, as this one is definitely set in the BatB universe fair and square. Any further crossovers will be noted where appropriate.

The boy prince is eight, grinning ear to ear, his hands held behind his back as he sidles around a corner of the courtyard in search of Lumiere (his birthday today!) or Plumette. Either will do, really, but he’s looking for Lumiere more than he is Plumette--his mother has told him she saw them somewhere outside, near one of the fountains. No doubt, they’re likely at their favourite fountain at the far corner of the gardens. 

Adam turns another corner, dashing forward to peek around, the paper in his hands clutched against the tugging wind that would love to look at his penned opera. The sun’s rays send dancing spotlights of midday white through jittering leaves and swishing dancing branches, like the fluttering fingers of ballerinas during the climax of a ballet. A black spider skitters away from his pointed shoe as he sidles along a wall, having spotted Lumiere and Plumette talking up ahead, their heads leaning and voices whispering. Plumette’s fingers reach up and tuck a strand of Lumiere’s hair behind his ear, murmuring about how he should get Mrs Potts to give him a haircut for once, and not try it on himself. 

Adam doesn’t bother to hide his grin or his glittering eyes, proud of the gift in his hidden hands, as he tries to creep toward the couple without them spotting him. He is only a few feet away when Plumette spots him out of the corner of her eye and turns her head to regard him with a warm smile that, to Adam, might well be as warm as the sun itself. Lumiere turns his gaze from her to Adam too. 

“Adam! What’re you looking so pleased about?” Plumette enquires, tilting her head this way and that with a small smile. 

Adam strides up to Lumiere, who straightens up, his thumbs latching in his pockets. 

“My prince, what can I do for you?” 

“Close your eyes!” 

“Whatever for?” 

“Because it’s your birthday, Lumiere,” Adam explains like it should be as obvious as the bright blue sky above and the nodding daisies in the grass underfoot. 

An amused Lumiere shuts his eyes tight. 

“Hold out your hands,” Adam directs, and when Lumiere obediently does so, the boy profers the paper he had been holding behind his back, and, after carefully ensuring that the paper is not too crinkled nor are they out of order (he marked the pages in big circled numbers on the top right corner), Adam places the four leaves in his favourite servant’s hands. Lumiere, seeming to sense that it is paper he is holding, closes his thumbs and fingers over the paper so they do not blow away with the wind. Plumette sidles over to Lumiere’s side, looking over his shoulder, raising herself on tiptoes to take a gander at the gift.

“Open your eyes, Lumiere!” Adam declares, bouncing on his toes with excitement, eager to see what the servant thinks of his present. 

Lumiere opens his eyes, looking immediately at the paper in his hands. 

“It’s an opera I wrote! Just for you and Plumette!” 

Plumette’s hands fly to her heart, her dark eyes full of smiles and delight. Lumiere gasps dramatically, holding the opera script out at arm’s length, reading the title. 

“Plumette and Lumiere,” he reads aloud, “A Tale as old as Time. That’s quite the title, my prince! What happens in it? Is there music?” 

“You fall in love in it,” Adam says, “And you go on lots of adventures and discover a hidden beast in a far away country.” 

“Oooh!” Lumiere is positively jubilant, and he bends down to grab Adam in a tight hug, ruffling his hair playfully with one hand. “A far away country, huh?” he echoes, releasing Adam. “Where’s this country I may ask?” 

“Scotland!” 

“The wild green of Scotland?” 

“In a mysterious part of Scotland.” 

“Have you come up with the music as well?” Plumette asks, crouching down to Adam’s level, opening her arms for a hug too. “Or is that still yet to be composed?” 

“I haven’t asked Chapeau yet,” Adam confesses in a hushed voice, like this is a terrible admittance, “But I think he will make the best music for the songs.” 

“But of course!” Lumiere exalts, flinging his arms wide, “He is, after all, most excellent with the violin, is he not?” 

“Do you want to come with me and ask him?” Adam asks, holding out a hand, delighted that Lumiere has been so delighted by his birthday present--an opera he had created himself! 

Plumette and Lumiere glance at each other, and in unison, they both take one of Adam’s hands in theirs. 

“Let’s go find Chapeau to create some fine music for the Prince’s finest opera in all of France,” Lumiere grins, squeezing Adam’s hand. 

And the three are off, opera fluttering in Lumiere’s hand, Adam between him and Plumette, holding on to their hands like he never wants to let them go, not for all the operas in the world. 


	11. Blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting his grandparents for the Christmas holidays in Yorkshire, Chip discovers that the seemingly abandoned battered old cottage is not empty after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-over between Harry Potter and Beauty and the Beast, starring the Potts family and Remus Lupin.

Once again, much to his parents’ and grandparents’ exasperation, Chip ran around underfoot as the adults prepared the house for Christmas day less than a week away. Chip managed to break three different vases his father had created so lovingly (all were mended with a sigh and a fixing spell from Jean), knocked down the chopping board, peels and all, when his mother was off to help his grandma with a boggart discovered in her trunk at the foot of her bed, and he tipped over a chair while trying to jump on it, sending it to the floor with a crash that sent his mum running back into the living area. 

“Oh for goodness sake, Chip!” Mrs Potts cried, running her hands through her hair in exasperation. “Go outside and have a run around–it’s nice and sunny!” 

“But it’s cold,” Chip complained, putting the chair back upright again, “I don’t like the cold.” 

Mrs Potts took out her wand from her apron pocket and flicked it in the direction of her son’s coat and scarf hanging on a coat hanger. Both coat and scarf zoomed over the floor into Chip’s arms. 

“Put those on and button up tight and go enjoy a run outside. You’ll warm up in no time, love.” 

“Yes, mum,” Chip mumbled as he finished wrapping the scarf around his neck and started to button up his coat, one of the buttons nearly falling off by a thread.

“And don’t go too far now, will you?” 

“I won’t.” 

“And be sure not to go playing in that old cottage over there,” Mrs Potts pointed out the window at a tumbledown cottage that appeared in serious need of repair, looking for all the world like it was abandoned years ago. “I want you to stay safe. Promise? Here, let me get that button.” 

Mrs Potts swished her wand at the dangly button on Chip’s coat, mending it in a jiffy, leaving the boy snug and warm. Satisfied her son was now all bundled up against the cold, she gave him a tight hug and a firm loving kiss on his head, his arms wrapping around her waist in a hug just as full of love too. 

“Be safe, love,” Mrs Potts tapped his nose with a finger, before releasing Chip, who raced to the door, wrenching it open, letting in a blast of air. Mrs Potts was about to yell after him to shut it, but he had already sprinted out of earshot into the sunny outdoors. Mrs Potts tried not to shiver, quickly flicking her wand at the fireplace to make it burn hotter and brighter, and then finally at the door to close it firmly once and for all.

 

Contrary to Mrs Potts’ belief, the worn-down cottage with its leaking roof and cracked, webbed windows was not abandoned–not anymore anyway, not since Remus Lupin had moved in at least a year ago in this remote part of Yorkshire. Having moved from place to place, drifting from one very basic job to the next, he was used to living in “houses” whose conditions, at best, were just barely passable. Peeling paint from walls, stiff beds with no pillows, taps that only dribbled water at best even with the strongest of spells, windows that were cracked or even broken, and spiders and mice as housemates–he was long used to these sorts of conditions. He was lucky to live in one place for more than a couple months, before his lycanthropy forced him to move on before anyone figured out why he disappeared once a month, every full moon, regular as clockwork.

Nevertheless, he still found reason to smile at the little things this morning, completely unaware of a young boy running in the direction of his cottage, believing it abandoned and, therefore, full of adventure. Pulling out a cup, Remus tapped the full kettle on the bench, and it began to steam and whistle. He leaned his elbows on the bench, taking a minute to look at the fresh winter morning outside the window, taking note of the skeletal trees, the rolling clouds high up, and the wide, wide expanse of green falling over the distant horizon. It wasn’t too bad here, really, and he’d lived in far worse places, with only his years-old world-weary robes to keep him warm as he passed cold nights sleeping on benches, homeless, with only a handful of flames to keep him warm. 

It didn’t stop him feeling a pang of longing on seeing how festive the distant cottages were becoming with Christmas Day just around the corner. Usually, he would have visited his father on Christmas, but this year, the full moon was too near Christmas for him to have the energy to visit. He would be too exhausted to make the trip, spending most of the day resting or sleeping, ignoring his always-hungry stomach that was never quite full enough as he lived his hand-to-mouth existence. 

He’d just sat down, mug of tea in his hands, on the worn-out sofa, when a sound of splintering wood and a child yelping in surprise came from outside. Concerned now, Remus stood back up, tea still in one hand, and opened the front door to go look outside, catching a fleeting glimpse of a child brushing himself off quickly and then running around the back, leaving behind the piece of wooden railing that had broken off, clearly too rotted to have stayed affixed. 

For a few seconds, Remus thought the kid might have run off altogether, were it not for some clattering around and a happy yell of “WOW! Big spider!” escaping from around the back of the house. Amused by the unexpected company, Remus mused that he ought to say hello, and perhaps wish him a merry Christmas. Everyone deserved a merry Christmas, even if he felt he himself didn’t, for who would welcome a werewolf to their Christmas dinner, if they knew? 

Better to be alone and avoid rejection, than to try. It was safer that way, and he was used to his loneliness anyway. 

Going around to the back of his rundown, temporary home, Remus spotted the boy crouching down low, apparently deeply intrigued by something he was watching on the ground–possibly that huge spider he had yelled so excitedly about several seconds ago. 

Remus took a sip of tea before greeting–and surprising–the boy with a pleasant “Lovely morning for spider hunting isn’t it?” 

The little boy jumped and whirled around, eyes wide with surprise. 

“Oh! Hi!” a merry wave, a stamping of feet. “I didn’t see you coming! Where did you come from?” 

Remus smiled. “I live here–thought I heard a little ruckus gong on around here.” 

“Sorry,” the boy looked guilty, his eyes flickering around and to the ground, “But mum told me this cottage was abandoned.” 

Remus acknowledged the old, crumbling wall next to him with a little agreeing nod. 

“You’d think so wouldn’t you?” he commented, “But no, not quite abandoned.” 

The boy’s mouth fell open. “You live here?! Are there ghosts around? It’s gotta be haunted!” 

Remus couldn’t help but laugh, “No one else haunting this place but me, I’m afraid.” 

The boy dusted dirt off his hands, now folding his arms around his middle, as if to stave off the winter cold despite his thick coat and scarf. 

“You’re pulling my leg aren’t you? Mum says this place isn’t even fit for rats.” 

_No, but it is more than fit for a werewolf like me._

“I don’t know, I’ve got a couple of rodent friends keeping me company in my house right now.” 

The kid pulled a face. “Ewww!” 

Remus shrugged with a wan smile. “I’m used to rats by now.” 

“Why do you live here? Mum would be horrified!” 

A fleeting pang of panic went through Remus, though he remained outwardly calm, trying to remind himself that there was no way this kid’s mother knew of his lycanthropy. If this kid’s mum was horrified, it was at the run-down cottage, not at him. 

Remus shrugged in a would-be casual manner. “I have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. What more do I need?” 

The boy’s eyes wandered up to the broken window next to Remus. “Fixed windows and a not leaky roof. Can you not fix it with magic?” 

“It’s not for lack of trying,” Remus admitted, before taking another long sip from his cup.  “Even so, there’s only so much I can do.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

And the boy looked sorry too, and Remus tried not to think about the fact that if he knew he was a werewolf, the kid would run off in the opposite direction back to his family. He quickly changed the subject. 

“So, about that spider?” 

“What spider?” 

“Sounds like it was an impressive specimen from what I heard.” 

The boy’s face lighted in a huge grin. “Yes, sir, it was a big one! It’s a brave spider walking around in this cold!”

“Very brave indeed,” Remus concurred, finally draining his rapidly cooling mug of tea. “Found anything else?” 

“Nope–wanted to find the biggest worm to show my dad, but can’t find any.” the boy shrugged. “Too cold I think.” The boy stuck out a hand to Remus, waiting for him to shake it. “Name’s Chip, sir. Chip Potts.” 

Remus shook the boy’s hand with cordial warmth and a smile. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr Chip Potts.” 

“What’s your name, then?” 

“Rem–”

“CHIP!” 

Both turned to spot a lady waving from a few dozen feet away, trying to get Chip’s attention. 

“Oh! Think mum wants me to go inside again–probably got me a chore or two to do around gran and grandpa’s house. Bye, sir!” 

With a merry little bow and salute at Remus, Chip turned and hared away back to the house where the lady was waving for the boy. After watching for a second or two until they went inside the house, Remus tightened his cloak around his shoulders and returned into his own home, ready for one more cup of tea to warm him up against the wintry morning, feeling happier now than he had for a long while, all because of one small interaction with a cheery boy full of energy and life. 

 

Remus wasn’t expecting any more visitors for the rest of the day, and so he settled into his usual routine, the sun playing over the fine lines already settling into his face, and the dusting of grey already streaking his brown hair. He sung an old ditty or two to himself as he cobbled together a small lunch, followed by a cup of coffee and some work on the house, trying his best to keep it on this side of just barely livable. He had been in worse places, and, as he had told Chip Potts, he was lucky to have a roof, even a leaky, damp one at that, over his head. He’d occasionally gone most of, if not all, of a year without a single shelter to keep him snug and warm. 

Really, it was another normal day for Remus, adjusted to his lonely, cold existence since… 

Since a long time ago. 

 

The sun had long ago set, with twilight darkening the sky, when Remus heard a firm, loud knock at his door. Who could be visiting him this time? Surely not that boy who’d been so excited over spiders and so horrified about his living conditions. While the moon was out, still more or less in its quarter phase, it was already dark enough for any young kid not to be wandering about on their own. 

Getting up from his seat at the table, the man walked to the door, ignoring its loud creaks on rusted hinges as he opened it to discover the same boy and the same woman–his mother, Remus presumed–standing at the threshold. Chip was standing smiling at her side, waving at him merrily with a “hello again!” The woman, red hair pulled back in a single long plait over her shoulder, held a thick woollen blanket that Remus could never have afforded in his lifetime. 

“Good evening,” the woman greeted him, “My son, Chip, told me you live here.” 

“I do.” 

The woman’s eyes wandered, looking over Remus’ shoulders, taking in the poorly scene inside. 

“Well! This is no living condition for any human being!”

_Except a werewolf._

She tsked and held out the blanket toward him, Remus taking an instinctive step back, reluctant to take it. 

“You’re kind, but I can’t accept it.” 

Chip’s mother gave Remus a hard look, a flash of no-nonsense in her eyes. 

“Believe me, my mother and father have enough blankets for all of Hogwarts with more to spare left over, I swear to God,” she insisted, a smile now lilting on her face, “I think you really should have at least one properly warm woollen blanket.” 

Still somewhat reluctant to take the gift, Remus reached out and took it anyway, the fabric soft and fluffy under his fingers.

“Thank you…Mrs Potts?” 

She nodded, taking Chip’s hand in her own. “Beatrice Potts is my name, and I’m Chip’s mum.” 

“Remus Lupin, madam.” 

“Will you have anyone visiting you at Christmas? We always have room for one more in my parents’ house for Christmas.” 

Remus, though moved by her kindness, shook his head. “I’m used to being alone for Christmas.” 

“Surely you must have family!” 

“I have my father, but I cannot visit him every Christmas, including this Christmas.” 

“That is a shame. Then you must come over for Christmas–I can tell you my father makes a most excellent breakfast that would make a king jealous. Isn’t that right, Chip?” 

“Dead right! And there’ll be lots of dessert too!” 

“Not at breakfast, however,” Mrs Potts’ voice was firm, but her eyes twinkled, even in the twilight. “You must come over–I’d hate to think of you spending all of Christmas day alone in this…shack.” 

“Christmas is a time for family, and I’m not part of your–”

Beatrice shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, Mr Lupin, Christmas is for all, whether they are family or not.” 

“I appreciate it, but–”

“No buts. We have enough room at the table for one more person, and my family back at the cottage hate to think of someone having Christmas all alone–what sort of day is that?” 

It was clear she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and Chip was looking up at him with an eager grin, nodding his head as if to encourage him to take up the invitation. 

“Will you then?” Mrs Potts persisted, “You deserve a happy Christmas with other people for once, and I can tell my son has taken a shine to you already.” 

Remus glanced up at the sky, catching a glimpse of the quarter moon, wincing inside as he knew his transformation was only a week away, but fortunately it would miss Christmas by four or five days. For the longest time, he didn’t ever have anything happy to look forward to post-transformation, not since he had left Hogwarts, not since his friends’ death, not since Sirius’ betrayal. He would still be weary on Christmas day, for only a few days would have elapsed after his monthly transformation, but if he had a warm Christmas meal or two to look forward to for once…

How could he say no to such an eager and earnest invitation? He could barely remember the last time anyone had invited him anywhere–perhaps not since the Potters’ wedding. 

Remus Lupin smiled. 

“I’ll see you on Christmas morning, then.”


	12. Rouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three-year-old Adam dabbles in the fine art of make up application...with not-so-fine, perhaps, results.

The first time Adam had tried on rouge was when he was three, sneaking into his mother’s dresser, discovering her stash of make up. Many of the tiny silver-edged containers were unopened since who knew when they were first given or purchased. His mother, unlike many other rich and wealthy ladies of her class, did not tend to wear a lurid amount of make up. Where pale ladies covered their faces in lead-laden foundation and two bright red circles of rouge on their cheekbones, his mother settled for a far more natural appearance. 

He had slipped away unnoticed from Mrs Potts’ watchful eye, nipping away as soon as she was distracted by a racket coming from the sink in the kitchen, and toddled off to his parents’ spacious, stone-laden bedroom, heading straight for the dresser full of really pretty things from glittering jewels to enticing, lurid makeup. 

Shoving his hands into the makeup drawer, his fingers closed on any random things they happened to touch. Satisfied he had grabbed all he could feasibly hold, the prince drew out his discoveries, letting them slip out of his hands and clatter to the floor at his feet. The lid popped off one of the little vials, spilling malachite green eyeshadow powder in a streak across the cream rug. He just laughed in the pure, innocent way three year olds do, rubbing the powder into the rug, staring at his now-green fingertips in fascination, before putting them in his mouth to taste it. He pulled a face immediately–makeup was not tasty! He would have to advise the kitchens later on his discovery. Perhaps he should tell Lumiere to pass the message on to Cuisiner. 

Deep in his exploration, Adam knelt down on the rug, now prising open the blush container, at the same time looking for the brush he often saw being used by one of his mother’s servants when putting on her makeup. It looked so easy when the adults did it–why couldn’t he? 

Adam searched among the four or five things he had pulled out of the drawer, and could not discover anything that remotely looked like that soft brush servants used to dust light pink over his mother’s cheeks. Maybe there was one inside the drawer? 

Pushing himself up onto his feet, mimicking how Cogsworth sometimes groaned when he stood up, joints aching and creaking, and, hands on the drawer, stood up on tiptoes to look inside. Ah hah! There was the brush right there! Reaching  a hand inside, he nabbed the gold-handled brush and toddled back to the things he already had laid out on the rug, making a beeline for the blush, picking it up in his other hand. 

He wasn’t tall enough to reach the mirror sitting atop the dresser, but there was a gold-framed, ornate, full-length mirror that he could definitely use. So he toddled on over, sitting down with legs crossed in exactly the way his father hated him doing, and waved at himself in the mirror with a grin. 

“Hi me! I’m going to put makeup on you! Hold still.” 

With a very serious expression, like the servant who put on mother’s makeup, he opened the blush container and put as much powder on the brush as he could until it was covered in light pink. 

“I’m ready now,” he declared to his reflection, now bringing up the brush to dust powder all over his face, dipping it again and again in the powder until his face was so pink one might have believed he had been running a marathon. When at last he was satisfied, the blush all over his forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin, he grinned at himself. 

“All done! You’re so pretty, me! Mama will be surprised! Let’s go see her!” 

And so, putting down the brush and powder very carefully in front of the mirror like it was a precious treasure, he ran out of the room to find his mother, sure she would be surprised to see how pretty he had made himself with her makeup. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this earlier today in a kind of speed-writing twenty-to-thirty minute gap between university lectures, and let my muses take it where they may, as I really wanted this prompt done with (I had no other idea how to respond to the prompt.) Anyway, that aside, this leaves just two more prompts to go!


End file.
